Uncle Rupert and Anton rode in the little yellow hatchback from one side of Paris to the other. Uncle Rupert carefully pulled his Le Car next to the house. Afterwards, he opened Anton’s door and carried him inside, trying not to wake the sleeping child.
“Where are we?” muttered Anton.
“We’re home.”
Anton sighed and yawned as Uncle Rupert carried him upstairs. He tucked Anton in bed and turned off the light. Just as he was about to close the bedroom door, he was interrupted.
“Where are you going?”
“Downstairs to my chair.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me a bedtime story?”
“If you’re not too tired.”
“I’m not.”
So Uncle Rupert sat on the edge of Anton’s bed and cleared his throat.
“Once Upon a Time, there was a Cat…”
“Not this one…” groaned Anton.
“It’s full of intrigue. You know, this is no ordinary cat. This is Puss in Boots.”
“I know, but our teacher has already read this story to us.”
“She hasn’t told the story like I will…”
“How will it be different?” asked Anton.
“I’ll concentrate on the good parts and leave the mushy romance stuff out.”
“I don’t know…”
“Have I ever told you a bad bedtime story?”
Anton shook his head. Uncle Rupert cleared his throat again, ready to tell the story of “Le Maistre Chat”, the Master Cat.
“Once Upon a time, there was a miller. He only had three things to give to his sons: his mill. his donkey, and his cat. He gave the mill to his oldest son, the donkey to his middle son, and to the youngest son, he gave his cat.”
“A cat,” groaned the youngest son, “my brothers have all that is good and I get this cat.”
“The cat overhead this, but was not sad. He told his master to get him a bag and some boots so he could trample through the bramble without getting hurt. ‘Soon’, said the cat, ‘you will see. I will give you great riches.’”
Anton interrupted his Uncle’s story with a clearing of his own throat.
“What is it, dear nephew?”
“This is just like my teacher’s story.”
“It is a classic story, written by a great French writer. The cat gets his boots and becomes a swashbuckler, doing heroic deeds for his master, even getting him a bride.”
“You said it would be different.”
Uncle Rupert rubbed his chin and thought for a moment.
“Would it be better if I told the story of other swashbucklers?”
“The Three Musketeers?”
“Of course,” replied his Uncle.
“Once Upon a Time, there was no cat, but there was a man who lived in the provinces. His name was D’Artagnon. One day, he decided to make his fortunes in the big city of Paris. He wanted to become a swashbuckler. His father gave him an old yellow horse. His mother made a special healing ointment to help heal wounds he might get on this perilous adventure.”
“Uncle Rupert, why are they called swashbucklers?” asked Anton.
“Let me tell you,” replied Rupert, “The young D’Artagnan also received a ‘letter of introduction’ from his father. This letter was written to the leader of the King’s Musketeers. D’Artagnan carried his healing ointment and his letter with him as he rode his old yellow horse along the country road to Paris.”
Before Uncle Rupert could carry on with his story, Anton had fallen asleep.
“Good night, my nephew,” said Uncle Rupert as he kissed Anton’s cheek and tucked him safely into bed. Anton slept. His dreams, of course, were filled with swashbuckling musketeers and even some sword-carrying cats.
Before breakfast the next morning, Anton quickly got dressed and went out to the garden. He reached up and snapped a dead branch of Madame Marchant’s old apple tree.
“What have you done to my apple tree?” asked his mother.
“I am going to be a swashbuckler.”
“You cannot be a swashbuckler yet,” said Uncle Rupert, “All you have is swash.”
Uncle Ruprt led Anton to his workshop in the basement. He cut a rectangle from a scrap of plywood and fixed two leather straps to one side.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a small shield called a buckler. The musketeers put this on one arm so they would be protected. That’s how swashbucklers got their name.”
“What about the swash?”
“You don’t know what the swash is?”
“Not really.”
Uncle Ruprt snatched Anton’s apple-tree-branch-sword and quickly waved it through the air. The stick fwooped and fwapped, swished and swashed as it sliced through the air.
“Of course!” exclaimed Anton. He took the branch into his hand and waved it just as his Uncle did.
Monseuir Marchant arrived home after a long shift at the semiconductor plant.
“Papa!” Anton happily greeted his father, “Will you play swashbuckles with me?”
“I’m sorry son. I’m very tired.”
He was not only too tired to play with Anton. He was too tired for dinner. He was too tired for watching television with Uncle Rupert.
He went to his bedroom. Meanwhile, Anton continued to swashbuckle, roaming from room to room, waving his apple-tree-branch-sword as he did.
“Anton,” said mother, “I wish you wouldn’t wave that branch around inside the house. You’re going to knock something over.”
“It’s a sword for swashbuckling.”
“Why don’t you swashbuckle in the garden?”
“It’s raining outside.”
“Then go to the attic and swashbuckle with Nappy Cat.”
“That’s a good idea!”
Anton went up to the attic. At first, Nappy Cat was glad to see him. After Anton began swashing and buckling, Nappy Cat changed his mind. Anton chased Nappy around old cardboard boxes. After being chased from the safety of cardboard boxes, Nappy hid behind and under old furniture.
“Avast ye, my little kitty! I’ve come to rescue you from the attic!”
Nappy, however, was having no part of Anton’s musketeering. Anton climbed through the things piled in the attic. He swashed through dust and cobwebs. When he found Nappy, he moved the furniture out of the way, turning it upside down, too.
The clutter and noise Anton made was keeping Monseuir Marchant awake.
“Anton! Quit making so much noise!”
“I’m playing with Nappy!”
“Not now! I’m trying to sleep.”
Anton closed the door, leaving his cat locked in the attic. Even though Anton managed to find some quiet activities for himself, the cat was wound up, with nothing to do.
He purred.
And he meowed.
And he screeched for Anton.
“Anton! Get your cat!”
Anton went upstairs to fetch his cat. Nappy roamed through the living room and through the kitchen, too. Madame Marchant yelled.
“Anton! Get you cat!”
“What am I to do with him? Father does not want him in the attic and you do not want him downstairs.”
“Put him outside.”
Anton took Nappy out to the garden. Nappy and Marcel began fighting over fishbones and table scraps left in the composting pile. All of the meowing and oinking kept Monseuir Marchant awake.
“I will not be getting any sleep today,” groaned Anton’s father.
He got up and went outside. He picked up the cat and brought him indoors.
“This is your last day of disturbing the peace, Nappy Cat. Tomorrow, we will build you a cage and a house in the garden. How does that sound?”
Nappy Cat purred gently as Monseuir Marchant rubbed under his chin. He laid his tiny head on his owner’s lap and fell asleep.
“At least one of us is getting sleep,” yawned Monseuir Marchant.
He laid his head back in his rocking chair in the living room. As soon as he fell asleep, Madame Marchant covered both owner and cat with a thick wool blanket so they could both get a cat’s nap.
Swashers and Bucklers
